The Rules of Dating
by White Silver and Mercury
Summary: The rules are simple. Don't date your best friend. Don't date a stripper. Don't throw up on your boyfriend's expensive shoes. Don't tell your parents. Don't date a coworker. Don't believe your first love is going to last; that's why it's called a "first love." But most importantly: don't listen to the rules at all. / multi, ereri, eruri, eremin, jeanere, jearmin, otherrrs, au
1. RULE 1

THE RULES OF DATING

**disclaimer: **we all know.

**ratings/warnings: **T/M; more than likely of a mature/nsfw nature.

**a/n: **i just wanna write snk fic. snk drabbles & one-shots, a collection of _first dates _or something. repeated pairings, diff. scenarios. will take prompts. fluff & smut & everything in between. may or may not actually refer to dating "rules." may or may not abuse songs/lyrics that make me want to write scenes of cute or going at it like rabbits. maybe they'll connect. maybe they won't. also, acceptable canon ages (like Levi's "30-ish") are intact. others fast-forwarded to college years.

* * *

RULE #1

DON'T HAVE DESPERATE MAKEUP SEX IN YOUR BEST FRIEND'S HONEYMOON SUITE

* * *

_April 23, three years ago._

It didn't occur to him, in the moment, that it was a disturbed and messed-up shallow thing to fuck in the hotel room reserved for your friend's wedding night, a tangled mess of limbs and gasped apologies and thumbs stroking across the face so hard it pulled your lip back a bit (which was totally all right because you just opened your mouth anyway and took his tongue deep past your teeth).

But, in retrospect—and retrospect for Levi often came in the seconds after dubious behavior, because his conscience was a vindictive tattletale little hole in sweet nothings and dreams and it never let him get away with pretending he wasn't perfectly ashamed of himself—it was a very disturbed and messed-up shallow thing, and thank God Hanji never found about it.

And in the spirit of being honest with oneself and one's fuck-ups, Levi was not going to lie. Shitfaced by four o'clock in the afternoon from the wild reception and hurry, hurry, lest anyone see, falling all over Hanji's hotel room with Erwin as they pried at ties and suits and belts, ready to get nasty before they were even off their feet—hey, it was damn hot.

"Are you done being mad at me?" Erwin whispered against the shell of Levi's ear, and a deep little shiver rattled its way down the staircase of his spine. He was caught—hook, line, sinker, despite fishing euphemisms being gross and irrelevant. Whiskey was powerful on Erwin's breath; the cool hint of sweet liquor on his tongue was heady and intimidating. Man. This was a man. This was the man who held Levi's heart (and consequently his dick, this afternoon) in his large lovely hands, and it was unfortunate because no matter how much Levi wanted to mean it when he said he hated him, this tall, broad-shouldered, perfect hair, Brad-Pitt-eat-your-heart-out, make-any-member-of-the-female-population-within-a- mile's-radius-swoon-uncontrollably, smirking Greek god in Hanes boxer briefs _stud_—

He somehow continued to find himself trembling under those dark suggestive eyes, reduced again and again to the butterflies he'd thought had disappeared with puberty's worst confusions between lust and love.

_Ugh_, why was Erwin still so goddamn _perfect _when Levi knew all his flaws inside and out?

"Of course I'm still mad at you," Levi had hissed, shaking Erwin off at the door to the hotel room. Hanji had sent them to check in for her before the reception was over; Levi had insisted they make sure the key work. And now here they were, just the two of them, and an empty hotel room themed in golds and reds and rose petals.

"You slept with Petra," Levi seethed, casting Erwin a damning glance. "_Again_."

"You know I have a reputation to uphold."

_You know that's a big fat fucking excuse, you unfaithful bag of dickery. _

"But you're the one who's under my skin…" Erwin's voice was gravelly, low, dripping down the back of Levi's neck like sweet poison. An inner tumult knotted in his chest that he struggled to untangle. How could you hate someone but love them so much? How could you turn around and open your arms again to someone who had hurt you so deeply (until you admitted to yourself it was the angst and the twisted sexual tension that you craved)? Was it just the same old trick he surrendered foolishly to, in one fell swoop, over and over again bowing down below the tongue of fatal romancing and a masquerade of sticky charm?

God, fuck it.

Explaining a bond like theirs, such catastrophic and destructive chemistry, was like setting fire to the rain. Erwin was sexy and Levi was drunk and he just couldn't hate Erwin anymore when Erwin yanked Levi's shirt out of his suit pants and ran his wide hands up under the shirttails like that.

They stumbled backward together through the hotel door and against the wall behind it, car keys jangling in Erwin's hand. Oops, there went the hotel key. Better not kick that under the bed on accident. Erwin caught Levi's lips in a hard kiss, hot silky mouth and chins nodding, mouths working. The kisses were greedy, desperate, hungry, full of raw impulsive passion and a multidimensional need, and Levi groaned at the tang of Erwin's cologne, the natural sweetness of his wavy blond hair. He leaned full into those possessive arms.

Blindly, Erwin groped for the hotel door, but Levi refused to unwind himself. Shuffle-step. _Slam. _Erwin's hands settled greedily at Levi's hips. Levi arched his back. He let Erwin hoist him up ho-hum and drag him to the king-sized bed where they separated only for one to remove a tie, another a blazer altogether, and then down onto the scarlet coverlet they went, a mess of wandering hands and hot drunken lust.

Erwin paused to untie Levi's shoes, tugging him closer by the ankle. His eyes sparked with desire, intense and impatient and brutally hypnotizing. That dry smirk was back and it rattled Levi to the bone with crazy chills. God, had anyone else ever turned him on this much before? _Ever_? Did anyone else stand a chance, or was Levi condemned to this cycle of breaking up, making up, sucking off his boss?

Levi tried to drag Erwin closer, closer, and some foggy memory of a rainy day and a Professor's Row Tudor peeked out at him from the back of his mind. Coffee. Cigarettes. Scattered papers. Mussed blankets. Low light. Erwin, reading glasses poised atop his head. Levi, fresh out of the vicious media machine and the question of a career shift rolling around in him violently and terrifyingly like the game-changer it was as Jewel echoed from the radio: _Do you need me like I need you, too? Do you want me like I want you? _

He didn't want to think about Erwin holding Petra against his chest like he held him now, in Hanji's honeymoon suite. He didn't want to think about Erwin's long hot fingers dancing down Petra's side like they danced down his now, into his pants, sparking impatient delight as they curled on him where he was stiff and sensitive and flushed pink in ready.

There was nothing predatory in Erwin's piercing stare, just a raw possessive sort of need that terrified Levi for how brazen and intense it seemed. He really meant his apology. He really wanted him. It was a pattern and the pattern was unbreakable and Levi liked how it felt to be looked at that way: as a secret prize. A sanctuary. Someone, something, unlike any other. Something _needed_.

That, or Erwin was really wasted, and so was Levi.

Could've been.

Erwin's hands were bigger than his. They were hot, and strong. They were experienced, too, stripping Levi quickly of his gray slacks and plucking the buttons of his shirt.

Miserably hard. Fingers pried. Desperate heat, desperate embrace. Thumbs brushed hard over nipples. Wide hips digging down sent shockwaves of pleasure and Levi could feel the outline of Erwin's sex at the fly of his pants, grinding hard against him.

_He wanted it_.

Forget inhibitions, forget bad feelings, forget past, present, and future, except this moment right here with his tiniest of belches still tasting like rum and Erwin's glazed eyes glinting like a playful cat's.

Erwin made him feel so small, tossing him easily to his belly. His mouth was hot and his breath wickedly ticklish as he kissed the back of Levi's neck, pried deep into all those hot secret places until his hips met Levi's tailbone. Awkward, delightfully awkward and swollen-feeling, just as he'd memorized it. Darkly exciting, savagely sensual, no-kids-allowed, adults only. "I forgive you, I forgive you, I just get scared you won't want me anymore…"

"Levi…" Erwin whispered, and Levi could feel his heart pounding against his own, naked chest to naked chest. Mm, Fireball whiskey on the corner of his lip. "I will always, always want you, even when the rest of the world doesn't, and that's my cross to bear."

* * *

_February, two years later. _

"Ah… You're gonna think I'm nuts, but—I swear to God, there are people across the parking lot taking pictures of us."

"They do that. Don't worry about it." Levi lifted his coffee, letting the steam curl against his nose and lips before venturing a slow, thoughtful sip. He cut a glance up. Eren's face was pinched up like a crumpled paper ball, stuck somewhere awkward and nonplussed between uncomfortable and agitated. He wore a tense and vigilant look like that well, anyway; he was still young enough to, grungy little trust fund baby brat in the midst of young adult rebellion. Too-big thrift shop sweater under that denim and hoodie. Wrinkled baseball tee. Torn jeans. Wallet chain. Sex hair and those electric eyes, God—

"How the hell do you get used to it?" Eren mumbled, slouching low in the coffeehouse chair like the paparazzi didn't have zoom functions on their expensive cameras. "They're like fucking mosquitos. Or flies on a corpse."

"Morbid," Levi grunted, "but true."

The busiest Starbucks in Seattle was a whirl of voices and movement around them. Rain slashed against the glass windows; soggy miserable headlights bounced around in the crowded parking lot. The paparazzi were under umbrellas. Levi had already marked them in the periphery on the way in. He could see the tagline under the glossy magazine photo now, in there with the other celebrity couple sightings like he still mattered at all to the world of entertainment (other than for those who simply couldn't indulge enough in train wrecks and shockers like retired crime drama heartthrobs who just recently waltzed out of the closet): _FORMER CW'S "SURVEY CORPS" LEAD HUNK SPOTTED AGAIN IN PACIFIC NORTHWEST LOCALE WITH A NEW BOY TOY_, right next to a snapshot or two of another one of Hollywood's strangely accepted same-sex pairs—the redhead with the DJ girlfriend, or the loving husbands with their kids at Disney. Why the fuck did anyone care again, anyway?

"Can you handle it?" Levi husked, meeting Eren's glance over the café table.

Eren perked, scowling. Something flashed in his eyes. Any challenge was a worthy challenge to him; that much was clear. "Handle what?" he asked darkly and an image sparked through Levi's mind, like a flash of light off a mirror, the pass of car lights in an unlit room: an image of Eren prostrate on his knees in Levi's bed, toes and fingers curling in the undone sheets, moonlight dripping off naked shoulder blades as he turned drunken eyes up on Levi, and the string of spittle snapped from between their tongues—

Sex. Sex with Eren. One-night stand. Zipless fuck. Hookup. Casual. Pretty boy with an old and sharpened soul and those dark, damning eyes—Eren, in his bed. It took a bead of conscious effort not to pause and revel in that luxurious flash of last night's fun. God, he was so much younger than him, too. Hey, he'd obviously liked it enough to take the kid out for coffee. Right?

But it was impossible to guess just how long Eren would last. It seemed like the only one who wasn't utterly disgusted or terrified or annoyed by the lingering shreds of Levi's fifteen minutes of fame (which was years in the past, by the way) was, unfortunately, a certain Mr. Smith of Smith & Zoe Lit. Every other relationship crumbled in the shadow of a supposed-to-be-forgotten career.

"You're gonna show up in next month's 'US Weekly,'" Levi elaborated.

"Good," Eren spat back, so plainly and simply and defiantly. Levi looked up, startled.

"Good?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"

Eren shrugged, fidgeting in his seat. Finally he seemed satisfied with that same grumpy slouch, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "I could use some publicity," he explained, and Levi couldn't tell if his indifference was real or not.

"I'm sorry?" Levi cocked a brow.

"My band."

Ah, that's right. Eren the trust fund baby with the famous doctor dad and his little college baby dream of being a rock star. Forgot about that part. Too stuck on remembering the way his moans tasted.

"Remember the Titans, right?" Levi grunted noncommittally.

Eren's eyes sparked, insulted. "No. _Titan_—short for _Titanomachia_. That epic about 'War of the Titans.'"

"I know the epic." Levi paused, for some reason rather tickled by such a pretentious band name. "Your band, huh? Don't tell me you're using me as a career stunt, you little shit."

"Not using you." Eren paused, his own shade of dramatic effect. His eyes jumped past Levi for a moment; he was probably surveying the U-Village parking lot for those motherfuckers with their cameras again. He seemed satisfied with what he found, which was apparently nothing. They'd probably disappeared from sight by now, racing to the presses. It wasn't like Levi was Britney Spears or anything. Eren drew a breath, capturing Levi's attention again.

"I think I can handle a few pictures in the gossip rags, is all I'm saying."

"Listen…" Levi sighed, drumming his fingers on the side of his coffee cup. "I like you. I really do. I admire your iron will, I mean. Twelve credits of school, a part-time job, _and _a pet project garage band…"

Eren choked on his latte at that one, but he was too busy trying not to drown to argue much beyond a wide-eyed and pointed look that Levi translated easily as: _Not a pet project garage band, you asshole, a real band with real shows and real merit. _

"Has 'The Stranger' written about you yet?" Levi pried.

"Yes. Yes, actually. They have."

Guess it was more than a pet project, then. Levi shrugged. "Anyway, you're obviously burning the candle from both ends. You look dangerously close to self-destruction already, and you're only—what—eighteen?"

"Nineteen. What are you getting at?"

"I want to impart some of my wisdom. That's what I'm getting at."

Eren softened a bit. His shoulders wilted; he coughed on his coffee one last time and then looked at Levi in such plain deference that Levi felt a little pity for him. Oh, to be innocent and full of hope again. Full of drive. Restless with resolve. Did Eren have any idea what wisdom Levi wished to share? They hardly even knew each other.

Levi shrugged limply. "There are rules to dating and I want you to know them so you don't get hurt. You're playing hardball, dating me. And I'm not going to go easy on you just because you might not understand the rules."

"Rules? What, like—no bases on the first date? Don't answer the first phone call? Never buy your own dinner? Don't keep dating if you don't get a super romantic gift for your birthday or V-Day? Don't say the l-word until you've hit six months—if at all? Don't see each other more than once or twice a week? That kind of rom-com bullshit, the highly-effective habits of highly-effective serial daters?"

Levi's smirk twitched. He eyed Eren over his coffee. "You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"

"I'm sorry."

"Those aren't the rules I'm talking about."

Levi waited. He waited for Eren to understand this was a serious conversation, boyish wit and awkward Morning After flirting aside. And Eren did understand—after a moment. His expression cleared again. A dimple knotted between his brows; fucking adorable. Levi wanted to kiss it. Run his fingers through that messy dark hair. Smell the coffee on his kiss and the sex on his fingers. Count the hickeys he'd left under that stupid sweater.

Eren's entire demeanor shifted. His attitude faded. He met Levi's eyes innocently, openly. God, remember the way those straight perfect teeth had grazed his skin as his back had arched and he'd rattled out the most delicious, breathless, cracking moan—

"I'm talking about the _important _rules. The ones that really matter in real life." Levi held up one finger, nodding assertively. "Rule number one, Eren: Don't have desperate makeup sex in your best friend's honeymoon suite when you go check in her for her during her wedding reception."

Eren gawked, like he didn't believe Levi was being serious. Levi watched it dawn on him. He didn't sway. Not even when Eren blushed. Glanced around. Raised his brows, as if to say, _No shit? _And then cocked his head back and laughed the most raw, amazing laugh Levi had ever heard in his life—at least, from someone under twenty-five.

And Levi decided that if Eren said he could handle it, it was worth a shot.

* * *

_To be continued. _


	2. RULE 2

THE RULES OF DATING

**disclaimer: **we all know.

**ratings/warnings: **T/M; more than likely of a mature/nsfw nature.

**a/n: **i just wanna write snk fic. snk drabbles & one-shots, a collection of _first dates_. repeated pairings, diff. scenarios. will take prompts. fluff & smut & everything in between. may or may not actually refer to dating "rules." may or may not abuse songs/lyrics that make me want to write scenes of cute or going at it like rabbits. maybe they'll connect. maybe they won't. also, acceptable canon ages (like Levi's "30-ish") are intact. others fast-forwarded to college years.

* * *

RULE #2

DON'T GET DRUNK AND MAKE OUT WITH YOUR COLLEGE ROOMMATE.

* * *

_Freshman year, three years ago. _

Jean gave up on football.

In all honesty, it had been a pastime in high school. Something to satisfy the old man, to fatten up his reputation, to look good on a college app. Why yes, I do have a Letterman, and a class ring, but being drafted was never part of any plans for the future at all.

In juxtaposition with a football scholarship, a degree in journalism seemed weak and minuscule. But leadership on the field was not Jean's forte; he was much more comfortable on the sidelines, or behind the curtain. His dad said journalism was a slimeball's turf, full of slander and manipulation and reverse psychology. Journalism was for the weak according to Mr. Kirschtein, former scat back and now insurance broker, who married his class's valedictorian and never failed to express his disappointment that Jean didn't paint his face for all his Super Bowl parties. _Weak_. Weak to sit on your butt and tell stories about the world, rather than have people write stories about you.

But most of the time, Jean felt like the words he wrote were ten times more powerful than the words he spoke, so why not?

"I'm Marco," said baby face with the freckles, sitting cross-legged on his bed on his side of the room, with all his things unpacked and almost put away already.

Jean stood in the doorway with his bags falling off his shoulders, evaluating the situation. He always evaluated the situation. Sometimes he evaluated the situation for far too long and missed out on being involved in the situation at all. It was the curse of being a writer.

Marco. Swim team. Adidas snap pants. Geeky striped sweater. Looked like the kind of mensch who never skipped out on flossing his teeth, and always combed his hair after a shower, and never left his laundry on the floor, and put his books on the shelf in alphabetical order (because he did), and could never watch a movie like _Pulp Fiction _because he was far too detached from that particular realm of broken morality.

"Uh, hi," Jean managed to stutter out, throwing his bags on his bed.

"Are you Brad?" Marco asked, eyes trained on Jean.

"No. Brad's down the hall. We switched rooms last-second because he wanted to dorm up with one of his buddies and I figured, hey, I'm with a stranger either way, so what the fuck does it matter?"

Marco's smile looked a little confused, like he wasn't sure how to process Jean. Good. Arm's distance. That was the safest. Jean had learned as much.

"So, what then?" Jean grunted, raking a hand through his hair and turning to his new roommate. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it to the desk chair. "Are we gonna separate our sides with duct tape, or just trust each other to respect the magic line?"

Marco blinked. He looked down at the center of the room, then back up at Jean with that same pinched smile. A look like he was far beyond the bitterness of youth. It made Jean feel stupid. Awesome.

"I don't see a line," Marco countered charitably, and Jean felt even stupider for being the tyrant. _Cool_.

"Have you seen 'Pulp Fiction?'" Jean grunted.

"Yes."

"Oh. I guessed wrong."

"Hurry and put up your band posters and stuff. I wanna see if we have any similar tastes."

Jean flopped down amongst his bags and frowned at Marco over his duffel. Maybe the kid was nervous to be sharing a room with a stranger, too. It was kind of cool, not being in a _dormitory_, but in one of those houses-turned-shared-living-space within walking distance of the campus. Nice little two-bedroom bungalow, basement rec room and laundry, house leader with the loft to himself upstairs. Maybe Marco would lose his baby face before sophomore year, and he could be a great wingman. "I doubt it. But okay."

"I won't bother you." Marco shrugged. He fiddled with the corner of his blanket. Was Jean making him nervous? Wicked. He was such a social tool. "We don't have to be friends just because we're roommates. You have to let me know, though, because honestly? I like making friends, especially with someone I'll be sleeping in the same room with."

Jean bristled. God, he felt like such a dick. He buried his face for a moment, ashamed of his poor first impression. It was just that they were complete opposites in that regard. Marco liked making friends; Jean struggled to hold onto his friends.

Something shifted inside. Something like being homesick, but not. Something like being lonely, but not. Something that had to do with change, in a good way. Whatever it was, Jean wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't even have a name, or a definition, or a prerequisite, or a precedent. It just happe ned—_click_. Like that. And felt nice. He relaxed.

"I listen to a lot of alt rock," Marco confessed. "Three Doors Down, The Fray, Nickelback…"

"Oh fuck, you listen to _Nickelback_?" Jean snorted, peeking at Marco over his shoulder. Marco's smile faltered. He seemed to catch on that Jean was making fun of him. But at the same time, he seemed to understand it wasn't a real jab. Jean sighed, rolling over onto his elbow.

"Your choice in music sucks," he declared, "but we can still be friends."

Marco grinned and it was like the sun breaking free of the clouds.

* * *

_Freshman year, three years ago._

The first incident was Homecoming.

It was glittery cheerleaders in spanks and school sweatshirts and guys trying to roll keggers up front stoops galore, Husky pride and traffic congestion. Cops crashed ragers and frat houses kept awake sleepy residential neighborhoods blocks down. In some corners of the U-District, it felt as bad as Broadway during Pride. In some dorms, however, nobody gave a shit about the football game. It was just another excuse to party. And everyone was too distracted by Sasha and Christa offering up lap dances over Circle of Death downstairs in the rec room to know what went on in the room Marco and Jean shared.

Just past midnight. Jean hadn't been this sloshed since—God, the first or second party he'd ever been to, when he'd been a fucking lightweight.

"That's your Letterman from high school?" Marco asked, swinging back and forth in the swivel desk chair. "Looks nice."

"Makes me look like a fucking prep," Jean argued around a snicker.

"What were you?"

"Running back."

"Why'd you quit?"

"It was just a high school thing."

Marco smiled that dorky friendly smile of his, the one he flashed when he didn't have much else to dissuade Jean's worst tempers. Jean saw it a lot on the mornings he had class way too early, and Marco was sitting in the breakfast nook all dimples and freckles over his cereal. _I know there's more to the story than that_, that smile said, but Marco never pried. That was a good friend. One day they'd know everything about each other. But not yet.

"My dad hates I gave it up," Jean grunted, flopping down on Marco's bed. "He thinks I could've done something with it. But, like—why do something you're not passionate about? That's a waste of life. But hey, if writing fails me, I guess I'll just be a boxer or something. Healthy outlets and all, right?"

Marco laughed. His eyes were glossy. He'd tossed back as many as Jean, but Jean had the feeling Marco held his beer a lot better. How did _that_ work?

"Your feet are on my pillow…" Marco complained.

"So?"

"It's fine, I'll flip it over later."

"Problem solving."

"Can I try it on?"

Jean perked. He shielded a tiny burp against the back of his hand, cocking a brow. "What?"

Marco stopped swinging back and forth. The smile was gone. He peered at Jean from the desk chair gravely. "Your Letterman."

Jean sat up, dropping his feet off the side of the bed. "Why?"

"I never got one in school."

"Sure, whatever. It's just a fucking jacket. There's nothing cool about it. I don't even know why you wanna…"

Jean didn't know why Marco wanted to try it on. But he did know that he really liked the way Marco looked in it. His Letterman. On Marco.

The sleeves danced at Marco's wrists; they were too short. Marco was just a bit taller. But he still looked like a girlfriend, actually, that innocent cliché where the boyfriend hands over his Letterman to a sweetheart complaining of the cold.

And Jean thought he wore that cliché just as well as he wore his Letterman.

_Thump. _Jean's mouth was dry suddenly. His heart sank and then swiftly leapt again, fluttering below his throat. What the hell, why was he getting nervous? His face was on fire—and not because of the booze, either. He knew the difference between alcohol's heat and the heat of a crush.

The worst part wasn't even that Marco didn't notice. (It was a good thing, he figured, that Marco didn't notice, because he was staring like a lovesick idiot.) Marco just stood there in the middle of the room, eyes hooded and glazed, cheeks flushed from drinking, and he held out his arms like he found the length of the sleeves funny, and he adjusted the collar, and he turned and snuck a glance at the mirror in the corner like he was modeling in secret.

No, the worst part was the smile Marco offered after.

He turned around and caught Jean staring, and one corner of his mouth perked in a tiny, dry, weary smile, like he knew instantly that Jean had fallen for him, and he absolutely pitied him for it. Because of reputation. Because of restrictions. Because of society. Because he didn't even have to ask to know Jean swung _that way_. Because they hadn't even been friends for three months and Marco could already see right to the core of Jean's insecurities and secrets. Because he knew Jean's love came with baggage but he was willing to carry it.

And that saintly smile was the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen in his life.

Surprisingly enough, Marco didn't taste like alcohol. His tongue was a little cold, but it wasn't too bad. And when he sat down beside Jean on his bed, the mattress squeaked. And when Jean fumbled to cup his warm freckled face in his hands and keep their mouths together, tentative parting of lips, shy brush of tongue, twitch of the knees where they tangled together at the edge of the bed, Marco mirrored the action, so gently and so carefully sliding his fingertips up Jean's throat, thumbs settling gingerly near his ears. Exploring the feel. Memorizing.

The bed squeaked again when Marco leaned forward and Jean blamed being drunk for the way he acquiesced and pulled Marco down on top of him without a second thought. It was weird, smelling himself when he kissed Marco because of his Letterman. God, he'd pegged Marco a virgin, but—well, just because someone was a virgin didn't mean they couldn't kiss, right?

"Jean… I thought you were cute the moment you walked in, but I figured you had a girlfriend or would get a girlfriend or…"

"Are you kidding me? I can't get a girl. I'm a total bonehead."

"Can't get a girl or don't want a girl?"

"Right now, I fucking want _you_…"

Pop of the lips, don't forget to swallow so you don't drool on him, slick tempting heat. Marco tasted so good. Smelled so good. The way their mouths fit seemed like a puzzle finding its missing piece, and when Jean ran his fingertips up under the Letterman, under Marco's T-shirt, Marco's skin was fever-hot and Jean's head spun. He felt a little melty inside.

The lingering buzz of the kisses burned on his mouth, searing the feel into his nerves to summon for scrutiny later. If he even braved scrutiny. The weight of Marco curled up in the crook of his arm was the most perfect heat he'd ever felt—no high school fuckbuddy or sweetheart could compare. This was distinctly different. This was somehow new. This was…_real_. Plastered or not.

Laughter and shouts echoed from the basement. Cop sirens wailed by somewhere outside and a few streets up. Marco shifted. His sigh tickled Jean's ear. His voice was tiny and hesitant. "If you're not gay, it's fine—we don't have to talk about it tomorrow, or ever—"

"No, I don't label myself, okay? Just—shut up—if we don't talk about it, we won't feel required to justify it. That's what someone pretty smart about it all told me once and you know what, it's true."

It was kind of nice.

To understand each other, anyway. To understand it was an accident. To not feel your masculinity threatened. To feel so warm and content, and natural. There was another one of those subtle _clicks _inside, and Jean didn't even question it this time. He had a feeling it was something good. Something very, very good, far enough away from his judgmental father now that he didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to hide. Didn't have to keep secrets. Didn't have to feel obligated to question himself or analyze the way he felt.

_Can't get a girl or don't want a girl? _

Oh, Marco. Asking questions like he already knew the answers.

The music from downstairs vibrated up through the vents. Pop and hip hop had given way to sentimental rock. Pretty soon the party would dissolve into choruses of "I love you, man!"

Jean hummed to the echo of the song. It was one of his favorites. _You gotta promise not to stop when I say when… _Oops. His fingers were swirling idly in Marco's hair.

He didn't stop.

Marco fell asleep in his Letterman.

* * *

_To be continued. _


End file.
